A Tale of Broken Wolf & Iron Ailing Souls of Need
by beautylovestardust
Summary: Sometimes, he wants her. But he is not Theon. Reek watches her. She gives him hope, but he knows better than to touch Master's Wife.


_**An: **This is a one-shot that I began writing with the intent to possibly use it as a flashback to the massive fanfic I am writing, for this particular pairing, but I began to realize that it was not going to fit in the same universe. Being that I stole things from both the books, and the tv show to create this fic. It is a mixture of them both, and has references to events that happened in both. Also, I read a fan theory that Theon in the books may still have his balls intact, so this is also based off of that theory. This is strictly a one-shot, but I have always wanted to explore Reek and Sansa in an alternate universe setting, where perhaps they do not escape from Ramsay. They never try. Sansa is sixteen in this fic, though not extremely underage I still listed it as underage. Most of the tags are referenced, not specifically partook in._

* * *

**_A Tale of Broken Wolf & Iron; Ailing Souls of Need._**

* * *

_The heart will break_

_But broken live on._

* * *

Tremor-laden hands clutch hold of clattering keys. She is kept locked in. Secured. Like all of Ramsay's other toys. The hounds in their pens—Reek, now the only culpable exception to the rule.

He wanders free; a slave to these walls.

Ramsay's slave. Proverbially chained in place.

Wretched sounds, normally came from the other end of this door. Screaming, unconscionable things. But Master has departed. A few days ride away.

The first time since wedding Sansa Stark.

Daughter of Winterfell. Blatant, blinding beauty—Reek believed he would wed, once…in another life.

No creature, alive would want to wed him. Not now. After the pieces Master cruelly, cut away.

"Theon…"

Halted in place, Reek stole a glance in Sansa's direction. Took in the view. Long strands of hair, ratted at the ends. He could barely make out the tinge-scarlet color in the dim candlelight of her chambers. Her cheeks were gaunt, pale. Arms marred with finger-sized bruises. Neck, too.

His stomach churned.

"Not Theon, My Lady." His answer was robotic, instinctual.

Theon used to picture Sansa with womanly curves. And would often imagine how supple, like silk, her skin would become as he stole away her virginity.

The thought was quickly, cleaned from Reek's mind. It's just a memory. All it could ever be. Theon Greyjoy is dead. He doesn't exist anymore.

"Please…Help me, Theon…"

Another flinch overcame the worn, creature. How could she see Theon in him? Wispy, white-tinged strands of hair coated what used to be Theon's sandy-brown. Faded colors overtook once, emerald-green optics, and weak, useless, fingers, curled inward to show their bent state.

Some were even missing. No longer did he even have ten fingers.

He forewent a repeat of his status as Reek. Rather, informed her of another evident detail—that may bring comfort.

"He has gone. For a few days. Master is not here. You may rest easy tonight, My Lady." He gave a nod. A twitch.

He was repulsed by his own stench. Longed to scurry from these hollow, dark-chambers, encapsulated in shadows. But he remained.

He liked to view, Sansa. She was pretty. So pretty…

The sight—it made his balls churn. Made his little stub ache—but he was **not** Theon.

**_Not Theon!_**

And he had no claim to Ramsay's wife. Winterfell's daughter.

Though she managed to coax the truth from his lips about those Farmboys' three nights hence—he was not Theon!

"Come here." It was an order. From rose-pink lips.

Might he be rewarded for the news? He only dared to linger in her presence, due to Master's prolonged absence. No one else would notice his absence. No one else cared. His time spent in his hound pen, curled in the hay—was uninterrupted by any other than Master.

He hesitated—nary a moment—then approached the solemn beauty. Took footfalls near, until he hovered just on the edge of her warm, sleeping place.

Bedcoverings were once soft on his skin. Once a home…Expected. He was not Theon. Theon expected those things. Not Reek.

Reek was content in his hound pen. Residing in filth—and hound scents. He was nary a human, more creature—more hound. Ramsay said so. And Ramsay's word, was law.

As he came nearer, he could view the porcelain-tinge to her skin. The brutal, bruised fingerprints, seared into the flesh, with harsh imprints. How rough, Master was, with his toy. Reek felt remorse. Sympathy. But what could he do? He was a hound. Just a hound.

Hounds were obedient, and filthy.

She curled her feet underneath her rear-end. Let the heels dig into her rear-cheeks. Her eyes stained with tearful, colors. He could see the wounded-nature swimming in them. She was so lovely, like this. And so damaged.

She knew scars—just as he knew them.

Could she understand him, now? Now that she knew…the truth of things past?

Her hand reached up. Grazed rough-stubble on his right-cheek. Master liked it when he shaved. Just not too often. Not often enough to appear **clean**. He dared to close his exhausted-eyes. Let the sensation jolt underneath his skin.

"Reek, lay down with me."

Her tone was unreadable. Cracked at the edges, and when he reopened his eyes—he saw her pleading. Her beauty disrupted the balance of his mind. Offset, what Master sought to destroy in Reek's mind. In his soul. This was the first time she used that name for him. The only time.

His ballsac was intact. His seed was thick—full within—and he could feel needs. Urges. He simply could not fulfill said needs. Not properly.

Master made certain of it.

And her touch—her touch wrecked everything.

He wanted. The way hounds were never meant to want.

"He cannot hurt you, either. If he is truly gone. Please…" She spoke truth.

Master was gone. He was away with his father. His smirk as he had belayed the news made Reek's guts churn—but Reek knew the news was valid. The castle was at ease. Maids, Guards, Servants. All breathed easier. Carried less tension in their shoulders.

Yes, Master was gone.

Reek obeyed. She pulled back the covers—he slid underneath. Felt the furs warm on his skin. The heat from her bodice—warmed his slightly chilled flesh. She ignored the steaming tray of food. She often did. He still brought it though—still offered her meals along with comfort. When he could.

When he dared.

Sansa reached for his hand. Let their fingers entwine. He only had three left on his right hand—but she seemed undeterred. Only brushed his little nubs with the fingers meant to link together with them.

"Your **_poor_** hands." Her voice broke. His skin shivered. His stomach tilted, and eyes filled with tears. He tried to flinch his hand back—she held a little tighter. Brought it nearer, and kissed each little stub where a finger had been. Index. Ring. Then brought his hand to rest on her waist. Brushed the curve of her waist, with tenderness.

"My Lady…"

"Sansa." She corrected him. "You were like my **brother** once, Theon. You always called me, _Sansa_. Do you _remember_?" She whispered, so close in proximity to his lips he could nearly taste her.

He did. He remembered—but he was not Theon.

"You were meant to wed me, once. Did you know **_that_**, Theon? Father, wished for me to seal our family's alliance, by marrying you. It is why I fought so hard to go to Joffrey. I did not desire to wed you. How foolish—How stupid, I was. You never would have hurt me, Theon. You loved me. Just as you loved all of my siblings. You favored me, most. I saw it in your eyes. Did you have a _crush_ on me, Theon? Did you?"

He swallowed. Focused on the purplish bruises that tainted her neck. Watched the slight flicker of her pulse—just there. He felt hungry for a taste. Just one. He did not wish to think of his desire. His beliefs as a young man. Young…had he ever been so young?

He felt like he should have surpassed his fortieth name day. Yet—he was merely twenty-five.

Sansa was barely past her sixteenth name day. He still held regard in his heart for her. It was dangerous. She was Master's toy. **_Wife_**.

"Sansa…" He let the name fall. It was foreign on his tongue. He swallowed the thickness in his throat.

"He _hurts_ me. He makes everything hurt. Every touch. Every kiss. Every movement—hurts."

Reek flinched.

He knew the pain of taking Master. Huddled within the bars of his hound pen he would kneel. Bend to Master's sadistic whims. Feel as Master tears into his sphincter. Take the bruises as Master winds a hand around his neck. Squeezes his jugular until he fears he will lose consciousness. Master takes his pleasures cruelly. Always. Leaves Reek a debased, shamed, mess in the hay-filth. He would cower—sob. And nurse himself back to health. Or what could pass as pittance of health. He would waddle for days after a session. See the knowing glances of the castle staff.

They all knew what Master did to him.

No one cared to aide him. To even provide him a smile of understanding.

Just cruelty.

Cruel looks. Laughter behind his back.

He was a laughing stock. A eunuch—a smelly, hound.

"I know." He let the words fall. Could not meet her eyes.

Eyebrows drawn together, her thumb touched to his stubble, again. "He has done the same to you…hasn't he, Theon?"

He said too much. Master would not like him belaying secrets this way. He would be punished for it. Punishment, always meant flaying. Or worse. His manhood further stripped away by a romp in his hound-pen.

Reek let tears fall. He could not answer her.

"P-Please…" He did not wish to convey this to her.

"The bruises…on your neck…" She brushed one. He felt chills spiral down his back. Two nights past—Master had taken him. Rough. Unkind. And needy.

He could still hear the uneven breath-sounds in his ear. Still feel his skin scream for relief, as he was touched on his stub. As he fell into shame as he spilled his balls on Master's fingers.

The shame overturned his stomach. He wanted to flee. But the covers felt nice. The warmth of these sheets, were welcoming to his abused bones.

"Oh, Theon." The sympathetic purr in her tone, made him feel sick. Like a filthy, tainted, thing. Like Master was here. Torturing him, still.

Then, her lips were on his. He could taste her sweet-peach taste. She had eaten the fruit he left her, last. Some of it, at least. His heart jolted right up into his throat. And he returned the kiss. He was in shock. And he did want—he wanted. Needed.

His balls tightened. His skin screamed. And he drew in nearer.

He was the one that disrupted the kiss. Broke apart. Realization dawned. He was not a man—he could not **_want_** this.

Horror wrote into his eyes. He made to move.

"Wait…" She stopped him in his tracks. Gripped his wrist—firm—tight.

"S-Sansa…I c-can't…"

"You still look at me _that_ way, Theon. You still regard me with **love**. Don't you?" Her voice wavered. "If you do, then you will share this with me. Just tonight, it will be our secret, Theon. Ramsay need never know."

He shuddered. But did not move.

"I know you can still feel. I saw you, once. In the hound pens." Her voice was soft. Flowing. And realization dawned.

His cheeks pinked.

Shame overcame him.

She saw him?

"It is your **_only_** escape, now. Isn't it, Theon? From the _shame_? The **_needs_** Ramsay left you with…?"

He let tears trace down his cheeks. Those moments were private. The only bit of privacy he had left. The only bit. And she saw? He felt less than filthy, and hound-like. He was disgusted. In himself.

"Don't…P-Please..." He would never do it again. He vowed that now. To himself. She had seen. And he was all the more wrecked for it. Sometimes, in his worst moments he would let her name befall his lips. Had she heard that, too?

Master sees everything. Had Master seen? He prayed to the gods that Master had not seen.

"You need not be ashamed. I do not seek to tease you, Theon. I only mean…I want to feel something else. Anything else…What he does…It hurts so…" He saw her eyes. Viewed the sorrow lined, within.

Of course, she did.

So, did he.

Her hand slid down. Before he could stop her. Right into the ragged, tatters of his breeches. Underneath the slightly saturated rags from his consequent, leaking. Both of pre-seed, and urine. The combination caused his stench. She made no comment about the dampness. Only found his balls. Intact. Aching. And squeezed.

He squirmed. Whined. His stub, pulsed.

Master left him a merciful bundle of nerves. Enough to be smooth to the touch. Where his aching manhood had once been. The bundle of nerves was sensitive. And needy. It throbbed. Often. His balls felt heavy. Tethered to that ache.

He was not a man. He should not have urges. Master said so.

But he did.

His stub swelled in size. Attempted to replicate his once, proud-cock. The nerves raw. Aflame.

"You were gentle that night. When he…"

Theon's eyes reflected in horror. He remembered. He would never forget. Master—forced him to push his face between soft-pink, thighs. Where he kissed her mound. Lapped his tongue between soft, fleshy-folds, and tasted her cream. She had come under his tongue. Gushed juices that he eagerly lapped up, at Master's behest.

It was the one time he was permitted to touch Master's toy—**Wife**. The only time.

And the sight of her pink little flower, was the sole focal point of his mind. When he slid his hand between rough-thighs, in the dark-safety of his hound pen. He remembered that night. Instinctively. He could still taste her juices on his tongue. Still hear her tears, mix with moans. The shame she must have felt, being forced to come by a hound, no less. By a reeking, filthy, hound.

He would find pleasure in his own touches. Spill into the heavily stained breeches he was forced to don. Each night he dared. When the build up was more than could be handled. When his skin was alight. He would come into his own lusts. And seek respite. Just for a moment.

It was forbidden. But Master need not know this one thing.

"H-He did not say I n-need be rough…" He admitted. Reek sought no harm to Sansa. He loved her. She was kind to him, now. Now that she knew the truth of it all.

"I want you to touch me, Theon. I do not want that monster to be the only one that ever has me. He will kill me…When I am no longer of use to him. He has promised to."

Reek flinched. He knew her words to be truth.

"And I…I want to feel something good…I want a true wedding night. You would have given me that, Theon. I know you would have."

Tears rolled down pale cheeks. He could do this. Once. Master was not here. He need never know of this one night.

One night…

His mind was foggy. Fuzzy with clouds. She was swirling her index around the stub that surged with blood. She had relinquished her hold on his balls. Now she was touching him where he squirmed. Swirled—fused, with need.

Her soft, feathery-lips, touched his sandpaper, rough, ones. He sucked her petals into his mouth. Tasted her. Intimacy was equal to riding a horse. One never quite forgot, how. Never. Not even Reek. Despite his inability to connect to Theon. His counterpart. His creator.

"Make me yours, Theon. Yours completely." Her hot-breath touched his lips. He made little noises in his throat. But agreed.

His instincts told him not to—but his heart told him, he wanted this.

Despite what he deserved. He **loved**, Sansa.

Regarded her in his heart with tender-care.

He gripped the material of her nightdress. Timidly, hoisted the fabric over her head. Let the paleness of her skin be revealed. Along with every mark, scar, and cut Ramsay left in his wake.

He saw her nudity the night of her deflowering. When he tucked his head, between rosy-pink thighs. She had been pink—everywhere. Not a scar, or bruise to mar her flesh. Now—now, her bodice was akin to that of a warzone.

Peppered in ugly, bruises. Purplish-blue. Yellowish-green. The severity differed, all across her form. Each breast was pinched with purple, and blue. Bite marks clamped each nipple. Her skin was severely damaged. Tears welled in his optics. Tears of sympathy, for what she endured. Master, did a number.

Her stomach had cuts deep into the surface of the skin. Her knees, sides, thighs, arms. Everywhere. Not an inch of her was untouched by brutality. He squirmed.

She had been so beautiful. So clean. Her beauty did not leave her, but her light, had. Her innocence. And youth.

Just like his, left him.

Her hand tilted his cheek up. His eyes met her clear-blues.

"Do I repulse, even you, Theon?" The question shocked him.

"N-No, Sansa. You are beautiful." And that was the truth.

He was shocked at her appearance—though he should not be. He knew Master's capabilities, better than anyone.

Her skin was not flayed. Only marked in wretched, taint.

"Can I…Can I remove your…rags…?" He did not wear proper clothes. Rags were all Master gave. Unpermitted to wash the smelly, fabric—Reek was forced to endure his own stench. A combination of unwashed male, urine, hay, and sweat. The combined scents were unpleasant. Even to Reek.

He gave a nod. Small. Humiliated.

"Lift your arms." With great difficulty, due to the torn muscles in his rotator cuffs, he did. Being stretched out on a saltire for weeks had permanently torn several muscles. He felt the ache of it, when he walked, or moved. His body was so worn, and weathered—it was a miracle that he could move at all.

She stripped off the concealing rags. Let her eyes take in his own sight. He was not a pretty thing to behold. Not like, Theon had been. He was cut in places. Hunks of skin were missing. His right-nipple carved off. Cuts gouged so deep; they were risen on his skin. He matched, Sansa in bodily, visage. His beauty was robbed.

When she made for his breeches. His eyes were horrified. But he made no move to prevent her. He was humbled as his lower-half was left on display. His throbbing-stub red, and angry between his thighs. His legs marred with scars, and his pelvis lightly dusted with hair. Master kept him shaved. Easily accessible down here. He liked to see his Reek's privates. What was left of them—anyway.

Tears immediately welled in Sansa's eyes. He thought better of shielding himself. It would only make the shame settle in, worse.

Silently, her hand traced over the roughness of where his nipple had once been. He nary flinched. Only remained, stoic. Let her touch as she pleased. He was settled with his legs tucked underneath him. His thighs spread to allot her access to his pathetic, throbbing need. He was upright on the bed, as was she.

Her hand made sweeping traces down his belly, over his thighs, and finally, nudged them apart slightly, to better access his stub.

"You touched so hard, and fast that night. Almost, rabid." Her voice broke the silence. He closed his eyes against the backdrop of shameful memories.

But nodded.

He always needed to touch hard—rough. The Iron-Born nature in his blood, made him rough around the edges. At least, Theon used to be rough. With girls. Sansa must not have known that. She would not think that Theon was gentle, had she seen him **fuck**.

Not Reek, though. Never Reek.

Reek never knew the joy of having his intact, cock. Only the frustration of having balls that ached, and a stub that throbbed.

"You were so gentle with your tongue, on me, but rough on yourself. Do you prefer rough, to gentle, Theon?"

"Theon liked it rough, Sansa. I just…I feel what he liked. I like it, too." He admitted. Attempted to describe to her, why he was this way.

She seemed, intrigued. Curiosity, flooded her hues.

She retracted her hand, and he could breathe again. Without the strain of need, swallowing his inner-belly.

"Lay down on top of me, Reek." She laid upon her back. Settled there. And he moved to encompass her. Used to taking orders. Just not from her.

Her thighs spread. And when he laid just right, their hot-parts touched. Seared, together. He felt warm. Good. Tingly.

It burned.

He moaned against the nape of her neck. Mouthed at her skin, in silent, need. It felt unbelievable against his wrecked, male-part. It felt different not to have a hardness that poked, and impaled the fleshy womb, of a woman's figure—but it still felt good, nonetheless.

Her arms coiled around his middle. Little noises vibrated his lips against the line of her throat. Where her pulse point, was.

She lifted his chin, connected their lips, once more. And he tasted—longed—hungered. Swirled his tongue against her lower petal. Slid his hands hesitantly, up, thumbed her nipples to erection. Listened to her moans of urgency.

Suddenly, her thighs hoisted up. Bucked, against his own. And he jerked. Gasped. He felt the pulse quicken in his stub. And all need, became too much to tack down.

He began to thrust. Rut. It was slow at first. Then, quicker. Needier. Hs was riddled with disrepair. His mind wandered back to his hound pen. When he sought this pleasure in quiet, privacy. As the hounds all slumbered, and snored. He would find a release from this hell. From this place of hatred, and shame.

He would find a wholeness, when he spilled.

He was beginning to lose himself. His rational mind.

And Sansa, purred into his ear. "Try to spill for me, Theon. Where my opening is. If I have to bear a child, I want yours. Not his. Please." Her voice was trembling. Yet, certain.

His mind was scarred—and disbelieving.

Had this been her plan? The help she sought?

Did she know of his needs? Discover them? And exploit them?

He would do anything for Sansa—anything so long as Master never knew. If a little heir came out of his Wife, and shared sandy-brown hair with Theon. And emerald-green eyes—would Master not know?

Reek did not **look** like Theon. Not with graying hair, and hollow-eyes.

Master could not know. Never.

And, he obeyed. Let his kisses transcend the moment. Let his urgency spill over into the moment. And his boiling balls—exploded. Just as he felt her worked up frame—have a release.

He gave a rut up, where he knew her hole laid, beckoning. And came.

Seed spilled; some went into the entrance—other spurts dribbled out. He tried. He did not know how well—but he obeyed.

"Thank you, Theon…" Tears fell down her cheeks. He licked them clean. Tasted the salt. Kissed her mouth, and relaxed in her arms. He liked her touch. She was gentle. Kind.

Master hurt him—Hurt them both. But **she** wouldn't hurt him.

And, if all she asked in return for this night, was his seed—so then he gave it.

He drifted to sleep in her arms. Let his mind fade into this uncertain-cloud. And cease.

* * *

He snuck out with the dawn-light. Fearful of a servant that did notice his lack of presence in his hound pen. All it would take is one.

One, deviant, little pair of loose lips to disperse to Master of his whereabouts that night. Just one.

And Master would take his ball sac, next.

He thought it would be the one night—it wasn't. Every night that Master was away, she ordered him between her thighs. Every night that she asked—he obeyed. And gave, at will.

Sometimes, his stubbled cheeks would scratch at her thighs, and lick her clean, then to release, before he offered her his own release. His seed.

Others, he would drive her to come with his hips. He would rut until she came apart.

He owed her. For all that Theon did.

And he loved her. Deep in his heart, he knew that she held affection for him, too.

Her touches, her kisses—always made him feel loved.

And when those months passed. And her belly swelled, he could not help but wonder—who had fathered that babe. Master was pleased with himself. But knew nothing about Reek's betrayals. About his secrets. The continued secrets—even after she swelled. Their kisses, and touches in the darkness. Sometimes, even in his hound pen—if she wandered out there. They only had each other to appease the hurt, Master inflicted. The angry welts—scars, bruises. Only each other's lips could kiss those clean away. It became an obsession. A **necessity**.

And when the screaming, mewling babe emerged from between her thighs—Ramsay did not question the subtle tinge of sand, to the babe's hair. Nor the slight-shade of green to those, otherwise, bluish-eyes.

Only Reek, and Sansa noticed.

And they shared a secretive, knowing-smile. One Ramsay—must never know about.

One Ramsay—must **never** see.


End file.
